


je serai poète et toi poésie

by Dubstep_Wombat



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Doctor Who, James Bond (Craig movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Character Death Mentions, Drabble Collection, Fluff and Angst, Foul Language, I have no idea what I'm doing, Multi, Shooting people, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicide mentions, The title may be in french, but the rest is in English, haha and now it's got more than one fandom... what am I doing? I don't know, sorry for the confusion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:05:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3834670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dubstep_Wombat/pseuds/Dubstep_Wombat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'll be the poet, and you the poetry</p><p>A collection of Marvel Soulmate Shorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jezebel

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Soulmate Shorts AKA The Crackship Armada](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2658407) by [ozhawk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozhawk/pseuds/ozhawk). 
  * Inspired by [write love on my skin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835587) by [amusewithaview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/pseuds/amusewithaview). 



> Based in equal measure on [amusewithaview's ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/pseuds/amusewithaview)[write love on my skin ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1835587/chapters/7786424) and [ozhawk's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ozhawk/pseuds/ozhawk) [ Soulmate Shorts AKA the Crackship Armada](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2658407/chapters/5941115). Credit goes to amusewithaview for the general concept and ozhawk for broadening the horizons beyond the Darcy/Everyone idea. I'm going to give slightly more credit to ozhawk because this is going to be more like hers than amuse's. 
> 
> What I'd like to bring to this Soulmate AU thingy is to try and have really different voices for all the characters. I don't know if I can accomplish this goal, but I am going to try. 
> 
> The prompts for each pairing are _mostly_ randomly generated by putting my iPod on shuffle, but I decided I get veto power if one of the songs isn't mine. (I have my Dad's music on my iPod, and it's hard to get rid of. Don't ask. Just know that, if I didn't instate this rule, there'd be a lot of Andrew Lloyd Webber and Neil Diamond on here, and I don't find either one of them particularly inspiring.) 
> 
> If you haven't read either of those two works, then a soulmark is a tattoo-like mark you're either born with or, if you're older than your soulmate, it appears when your soulmate is born. It will say the first words your soulmate will ever speak to you. 
> 
> If you like this AU, I also recommend checking out [Fate Has a Twisted Sense of Humor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3398315/chapters/7437749) by [CeliaEquus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CeliaEquus/pseuds/CeliaEquus). Though she has, by far, the highest number of problematic relationships in hers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be the poet and you the poetry: [Jezebel by Iron & Wine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlxkJXeH8gg)

"So, this is where you’ve been hiding?” a familiar voice asked. Sky looked up from her computer to see Ward looking around the library appreciatively. “Didn’t think it was your speed.” 

It had started off well, you know. She was hiding in a small town this time: Iktomi Lake, Minnesota. Like the name implies, it bordered a lake. Two, actually, the center of town tucked into the strip of land between them: Iktomi Lake (or “the Big Lake” if you were a local), and Sapa Lake. She had liked how surrounded the place was. A town that almost had its own moat. She knew that wouldn’t really protect her from Cal or Ward, but it felt safer. Like a buffer. Sapa and Iktomi protecting her from all the terrible shit she’d been through.

Unfortunately, Iktomi didn't have a lot of places with Wifi. Skye had to chose between the library and the bait shop/gas station/coffee shop. (By “coffee shop,” Skye meant a place that will sell you a cup of coffee. And yes, it’s God awful coffee.) The library was by far the better choice, even though it was just a little smaller than a postage stamp, and its next door neighbor had these dogs tied up to a tree outside. They always snarled and snapped at her when she passed, like she was a particularly juicy bone they wanted to tear apart.

She wondered if they knew, somehow. Knew what had happened to her. Knew that she was different. Knew that she wasn't human.

She got to know the library’s regulars. The quiet, old ladies who always searched the large print section. The forty-something parents who bought their children. The teenagers who sometimes volunteered to help out Joyce, the librarian. Some people who were also after the Wifi, including a woman who walked like a dancer and had the most gorgeous StarkPad. 

(Skye might have spent a lot of time staring at this woman like a complete creeper, but she told herself it was in envy of her tech, and not the way her every movement made her look like she was in some kind of library ballet.) 

All in all, it was pretty idyllic in Iktomi. Almost ridiculously so. She didn’t think it could last, but she could hope it would.

Obviously, it hadn’t.

Ward looked at her, observing every detail like there’d be a test later. And hey, maybe there would be. She didn’t see Cal anywhere and who knows how psychopaths operate? “I missed you,” he said.

Skye didn’t take her eyes off Ward, even as she said. “Joyce. Call the police.” 

“Why?” Ward asked. “I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?” He was smiling. It was supposed to be a nice smile. The disarmingly charming one he used to get people to like him, to want to impress him, to want to be with him.

This was a small town though, and they looked after their own in small towns, no matter how charming strangers were. True, Skye had only been here a couple of months, but Ward had only been there a couple of seconds. “I’m calling the police,” Joyce said, reaching for the phone. 

“That’s too bad,” Ward said, pulling a gun out of his jacket and aimed at Joyce’s head. 

Joyce stilled, eyes wide. Skye stilled. An old woman reading an Alice Hoffman book, a teen replacing books among the shelves and Skye’s dancer woman all stilled. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioner and the distant snarling of the two dogs next door.

“You are coming with me. It’s just a question of how many people you’ll make me kill before you agree to accompany me out.” 

“I hate you,” Skye said, her hands clenching into fists. She wasn’t sure if _she_ was slightly shaking, or if the building was. She hoped it was her.

Ward looked at her a moment. “You don’t,” he whispered, a ferocity in his voice that made her think he was trying to convince himself more than her. “You never could. I’ll remind you why, when you come with me.” 

His voice was so earnest. Skye couldn’t take her eyes off him, but she couldn’t help the flinch that rocked through her body. 

“Fine,” Ward said when she didn’t say anything, anger edging into his voice, “Are you coming with me, or do I have to shoot this nice librarian?” 

Skye chewed her lower lip, thinking of a thousand moves, a thousand maneuvers, but she _knew_ Ward could anticipate them all. Hell, he’d taught her most of them. 

He could see her thinking. “Skye,” he said warningly, shaking his head. “What are you going to do?” He pulled the trigger. Joyce fell back behind the counter after a spray of blood and brain matter that Skye felt hit her face and arm. The old woman screamed. A tremor rippled through the room, and Skye took a deep breath, trying to focus her control. 

“How about this one next?” Ward asked, aiming his gun at her dancer. “She’s pretty.” 

_No, not her._ “Don’t!” Skye said, holding up her hands. Out in the air, they were quite visibly shaking. 

She turned to her dancer. “Don’t worry. I won’t let him hurt you,” she said before refocusing on Ward. “I’m coming, I’m coming. Just… don’t kill anyone else.” 

Ward grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it, baby.”

Skye stood and walked carefully over Ward, breathing deep, if only to keep from shaking the little library apart. He was watching her carefully, not pleased with himself. She knew he still considered her a risk. For all he claimed to know all her moves, she’d still gotten the better of him a time or two. It looked like he hadn’t forgotten.

But they were both surprised when it was Skye’s dancer who came up out of nowhere, disarming Ward so much faster than anyone Skye had ever seen. Faster even then May, maybe. 

Ward was weaponless, but not helpless, fighting back with that lethal ferocity Skye knew so well. Shelves and books died in a whirl of punches and ripped pages, and Skye stared at them for a moment before her brain caught up to her. 

“Get out,” she shouted at the teenager, running to the old woman with the Alice Hoffman novel, helping her up and pulling her toward the door, ignoring the woman’s protests. It wasn’t until Skye was outside the library before she registered what the woman was saying. 

“Who are you?” the woman was demanding. “What have you brought down on us?” 

Skye choked, releasing the lady like she was made of brimstone. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, “I’m sorry.” 

Neither of the two fighters had come out of the library yet. They said “better the devil you know,” but that idiom and any who used it could go straight to hell. Skye knew Ward. Knew what Ward wanted from her. She didn’t care who her dancer turned out to be working for, _anyone_ was better than her personal brown-eyed demon from hell. But she wasn’t going to wait around for either of them.

She turned to run, tripping on the curb and landing face down in a lawn, barely rolling out of the range of the snapping dogs, their spittle joining Joyce’s blood on her face. 

Shaking, Skye pushed herself to her feet again and sped away, the sound of snarling and sirens chasing her.  
***  
Everything inside her had screamed to just run. Shove her clothes in a bag, grab the used pick-up she’d bought for a wad of hundreds and race out of town as fast as she could. 

And she had. But she hadn’t run far. Instead she drove around to the far end of Iktomi Lake and parked next to what looked like a boat launch in the middle of Minnesota wilderness. She made her way down to the water’s edge and washed her face and neck off best she could, before just taking off her shirt and tossing it into a mess of weeds. (It was cotton, so it was biodegradable. She didn’t feel too bad.) 

Skye dug in her bag for another shirt and pulled it on, leaning tiredly against the passenger side door. She knew she should get back in her junker and drive away… somewhere. Somewhere away from Iktomi. Somewhere… safe. Was there such a place? 

Somewhere over the rainbow, maybe. Fuck you, Judy Garland.

“Skye.” 

Skye jumped, startled out of her reverie and turned to face the voice, an ICER in her hands, to see her dancer. “Ward?” she asked the woman, gratified to see the dancer didn’t look that much worse for the wear. Her shirt was ripped and her hair was skewed to the side. Skye realized it was a wig. 

“Incapacitated,” the woman said. “I’ve got back up coming to collect him.” 

“Who are you?” she asked. Maybe she should have asked that first, but Ward was more dangerous. She was certain of that, if nothing else.

The woman pulled off her wig to reveal chin length curly hair in the brightest red Skye had ever seen. She knew, suddenly, who it was even before the Black Widow turned off the face veil and removed it from her wide eyes and plump, perfect lips. “Natasha Romanov,” she said. “I- It’s nice to meet you.” Her voice caught a little, on the last sentence in a way that struck Skye as uncharacteristic of the infamous assassin. Skye frowned.

“Who sent you?” she asked, not lowering her ICER.

“Coulson,” Natasha said. “He been worried about you. I owed him a favor.” 

“Are you going to bring me in?” Skye asked. 

“I’d like to,” Natasha replied, taking a cautious step forward. “I’d very much like to.” 

Skye glared at the woman. “I- why? Didn’t DC tell you about me? I’m- I’m different now. I’m _dangerous.”_

“No one at SHIELD thinks of you like that,” Natasha said. “I was only there a few hours and even I could see they all care about you. Why did you leave?” 

Skye bit her lower lip hard to keep from crying, to focus on being tough and stone cold, instead of dissolving down into the broken girl she swore she wasn’t anymore. “Because-” she swallowed, and tried again. “Because I knew it would keep happening. Did they tell you about Ward, when they asked you to find me? Did they tell you about Cal? Did they tell you about Raina? Did they tell you about how…” she took a breath, then two, Natasha watching carefully. She started talking again. “Cal sent Raina to make Coulson choose, you know. Choose between me and Jemma. It worked out okay that time, but… I can’t make him do it again. I- I couldn’t-” She wanted to say that she couldn’t bear it if a member of her team, of her family, got hurt because of her. 

“I could take you to the Avengers,” Natasha said. “We can protect you.” 

“Until Cal or Ward found someone you loved,” Skye said. “They wouldn’t… the Avengers wouldn’t protect me if it cost them someone they love, and why should they? They don’t know me. They don’t… they’re not family.”

“Skye,” Natasha said, and Skye realized she wasn’t looking at the woman she was supposedly pointing a gun at. She was looking at the ground instead. God, May would kick her ass if she ever found out. She looked up into Natasha’s eyes, her unbelievably perfect eyes. “Is that what your soulmark says?” the Black Widow asked. “Skye?” 

Skye’s hand flew to her shoulder, right above the spot where tiny cursive curled into four letters. She was always going to change her name. Mary Sue Poots was a horrible, horrible name, God. But she changed it to Skye because that’s what it said on her skin. “How do you…?” she thought back, to a few minutes ago, the word that startled her out of her reverie. Same one on her shoulder. Her name. 

“You said my soulmark words,” Natasha said, taking the last few steps to where Skye was standing and gently pulled the ICER out of her hand before pulling her shirt up to reveal her stomach. A few inches above a knot of scar tissue, it said, _Don’t worry. I won’t let him hurt you._ Natasha smiled wryly. “When this first appeared, I’ll admit, I thought it was pretty funny.” Skye chuckled as Natasha rearranged her shirt. Yeah, that is kind of hilarious. “Skye,” she said, taking Skye’s hand in hers. “I would swear to you, on my life, on the universe, to God, whatever, that I will never, ever give you up for any reason, but I don’t really believe in God, the universe has proven itself to be a heartless bitch, and I doubt my life is worth very much.” Skye’s hands tightened in hers, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Natasha interrupted her. “No, it’s true. I’ve done horrible things, мое солнышко; I’ve got red in my ledger, so much. But I am yours. And, though, I can't really prove it, I will always, always protect you, understand?”

All the air in Skye’s lungs seeped out in one long exhale, and, with it, all her strength. She leaned forward until her head rested on Natasha’s shoulder. It took her a moment, while Natasha stroked her hair, before she could speak. “But I can protect you too, right?” Skye finally asked. “I mean, I could move mountains for you. Literally.” 

Natasha chuckled. “We can protect each other, мое солнышко. I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: There is no such place as Iktomi, Minnesota, nor is there a Sapa or Iktomi lake. However, Sapa is the Lakota word for "black," and Iktomi is the Lakota spider god. Geddit? I couldn't find the Lakota word for "widow," but if anyone knows it, I would totally swap it out. Iktomi is a trickster god, and I don't really see anyone naming their town after him.


	2. Madman with a Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be the poet and you the poetry: [ Madman with a Box by Halia Meguid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=604EXi9EnCc)

Pepper walked through the door of Tony Stark’s lab with the air of a general heading into battle. 

It wasn’t that far from the truth.

Pepper knew that Mr. Stark’s personal assistants never lasted long. She was determined not to do as they did, crumbling under the pressure like dust. 

She also suspected that every single one of her predecessors probably thought the same thing as they walked through this door for the first time. Men and women with more experience as personal assistants and better qualifications. Pepper didn’t forget that she only got Stane’s, and therefore Stark’s, attention because she’d pointed out an accounting error. She wasn’t certain why she agreed to this. But she also knew that, whatever happened, it wouldn’t be boring. Also, she liked a challenge, and this had the potential to be the most difficult task she’d ever undertaken. 

Even walking through the lab doors was difficult. The somehow utterly soundproof glass door slid back and Pepper was almost knocked off her feet by the wall of sound that hit her. AC/DC cranked up so loudly, Pepper wondered if maybe Tony was trying to weaponize it. It took all her will not to flinch, or cover her ears and bend away from the explosion of chords and riffs. 

Beside her, Obadiah, as he insisted she call him when she accepted his offer, had no such compunctions, bringing up his hands to either side of his bald head and shouting… something. Standing next to him, Pepper could barely hear his voice, let alone make out the words. She doubted that Mr. Stark, whose back was to them, even knew they were here. 

But something did, because the AC/DC immediately silenced, much to Mr. Stark’s indignation. He kicked up a fuss, and Pepper wondered if he had declared a one-man war on silence. She wasn’t entirely sure what he was actually saying, bent over his workbench as he was, his words slurring in a way that told her he either hadn’t slept for some time or had been drinking too much. Or both.

“You have guests, sir,” a British voice said, from… somewhere. It seemed to come from everywhere.

“JARVIS,” Obadiah whispered to her, by way of explanation. “He runs the house.” 

Pepper nodded, deciding she could get a better explanation later, possibly from JARVIS himself. 

“Tony!” Obadiah said, causing the futurist to look up from his work… it appeared to be an onyx black box, but, knowing Tony Stark, it could be literally anything. “This is Pepper Potts, you’re new PA. Play nice.” He turned speaking mostly to her. “I have a shareholder’s meeting to go to, but I’ll come back to see how you two are settling in afterwards.” 

Then he hurried out, leaving Pepper with the unsettling feeling he’d just run away and left her to defuse a ticking bomb. Looking at her new boss, covered in stains Pepper classed into three categories: engine oil, coffee, and _I don’t want to know,_ his expression a little cracked, she thought it was probably accurate. Maybe Stark was so good at making bombs because he was one.

She looked at him again, his cracked expression, and felt instantly horrible for thinking that. Even if it was mostly true. But Pepper could learn how to defuse bombs. It probably wasn’t that hard. 

He stared at her a moment, before asking, “Pepper?” 

It wasn’t the first time Pepper had been asked this, but she still had a small heart attack every time. Whenever someone said the word that curved in horrid handwriting on her ribs. But… no. Not _Tony Stark._ Surely not. “It’s short for Virginia,” she said. 

The way his eyebrows flew up his forehead told her everything she needed to know. Apparently, _yes_ , Tony Stark. “Oh,” she said, sure her expression was just as open. 

“I- nice to meet you, Pepper,” he said, but the sentiment of the words didn’t translate to his expression. He looked… stricken. 

“Your handwriting is horrible,” she said, hoping to change his expression. To anger or mirth, she didn’t know or care. Just… anything but that, the cracks in his face getting wider. She didn't want to be the one to break Tony Stark. She felt ill. “I'll tell Mr. Stane I can't take the job. This… this is a conflict of interest. I’m sorry.” And she meant it. Here she was so determined, and she’d lasted the shortest out of anyone.

“No, don’t!” Tony said, leaping toward her with such alarm that it startled her. “Don’t…” he ran his fingers through his hair greasy hair, and Pepper decided he needed a shower. “Look, I’m not the easiest person to get along with… none of my personal assistants have lasted very long.” He brightened. “But you! You! This is, this is like destiny telling me that you’re the one who’ll stick around, you know?” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Or, perhaps, destiny is telling you to be extra nice to me.” 

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, maybe. So… it’s not a conflict of interest, or it doesn’t have to be. The job’s still yours, if you want it. Do you want it?” 

He looked so… hopeful. Tony Stark’s eyes, it seemed were large ,brown, framed with long lashes, and perfectly suited to the puppy-dog look. Pepper found herself giving even as she swore to herself she would never give in to her new boss’s (and apparently soulmate’s) puppy-dog look again. She sighed. “On one condition.” 

His hopeful look switched to a weary one. “What’s that?” 

“You take a shower immediately. You look like you’re overdue for one,” Pepper stuck out her hand for him to shake. “Deal?” 

He grinned and, underneath the engine oil and madness, Pepper could see how charming Tony Stark could be. Thankfully, it was much easier to withstand than his lost puppy look. “It’s going to be a pleasure working with you, Miss Potts,” he said, taking her outstretched hand and kissing the back of it. 

She snatched her hand back. “I think we’re plantonic,” she said with finality.

They weren’t, but, they wouldn’t figure that out for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna lay out some headcanon here, and remind everyone that I don't read the comics, so... hush.
> 
> Headcanon: I imagine that, when Pepper first noted the discrepancies in Stark Industries, they were indicative of Stane's double-dealing. He didn't much like the idea of killing her when giving her to Tony as his new PA would distract her, keep her from pulling on that thread, and she'd quit working for SI in about a month or so (all Tony's PAs quit within a month or so.) It was a way of getting rid of her without resorting to murder. 
> 
> It didn't quite work. 
> 
> Though, I suspect Pepper spends a lot of sleepless nights kicking herself for being played that easily.


	3. Dragula

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be the poet and you the poetry: [Dragula by Rob Zombie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s1Z1Zrot-go)
> 
> Doctor Who crossover! Takes place between Thor and the Avengers.

The alarms were flashing and blaring all throughout the Helicarrier when Nick stalked into the observation room and stared at their captive from behind the two way mirror.

She’s a looker, he’ll give her that. Her blonde hair curled every which way. Her clothes were both practical and flattering, if a little strange. Her lipstick wasn’t even smudged. And her expression was very confident, despite the fact she’d been led into the interrogation room at gunpoint, having been caught trying to break into their armory. The corners of her mouth curled up just slightly, and she looked like she knows all the secrets of the universe. Which is ridiculous, of course. Of the two of them, Nick Fury was the one who knows the secrets. 

But, something about her… makes him think she’s not bluffing. 

“She says her name’s Dr. River Song, an archaeologist, but we can’t get independent confirmation. Her name isn’t in any database… anywhere, and fingerprints and facial recognition have been unsuccessful thus far.”

Nick looked from her to the agent when the young man fell silent. “That’s it? That’s all we have on her?” he asked. The agent looked sheepish, but nodded. “That's nothing. We’re SHIELD. There’s got to be more than this.” 

“Sorry, sir,” the agent said.

“What about the DNA testing?” he asked. “At the very least, that would give us a place to start.” 

“Uh, the analysts are running it again.” 

“Again?” 

“There was some kind of… the results weren’t right. They said they needed to re-calibrate the machine. They think either machine was broken or the sample was contaminated.”

Nick frowned at the beautiful, too confident women languishing in the interrogation room. “What about her equipment? ” 

The blond agent looked confused. “Equipment? She was searched, but we didn’t find anything.” 

“She must have some. You don’t sneak onto the Helicarrier and break into the armory with nothing.”

“But-”

“Start checking over the Helicarrier, beginning where she was found. If it’s not on her, she stashed it somewhere, got it? And someone turn those god damn alarms off!” 

He didn’t wait to see if anyone actually did before stalking into the interrogation room. 

“Alright, here’s the deal,” he said as he entered. “You are going to be put in a cold, concrete cell for a very long time. But, if you cooperate and tell me what I need to know, I’ll make sure you get one with a window.” 

The woman’s eyes got wide for a second, but the expression was quickly stifled. A slow, satisfied smile replaced it; one that made his heart beat faster, despite a career of cooly staring down a lot of people with the same hubris and bigger guns. 

Then she spoke.

“Hello sweetheart.” 

Nick was far too good at what he did to be caught off guard by a gorgeous woman in handcuffs saying his soulmark words. He didn’t react at all. “You want to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?” he asked. 

She didn’t seem at all phased by his lack of reaction. “Dr. River Song, archeologist,” she said. “As to what I’m doing here, I expect you’ll find out very shortly.” 

“Mind explaining?” Nick asked, not amused. 

Her grin twisted, getting suddenly very dangerous. “The alarms,” she said, looking up where one was flashing brightly in the corner of the room. 

“What about them?” he asked, impatience making his words staccato.

“It wasn’t me who tripped them. I’m far too good for that. This,” she held up her handcuffed wrists, “is just incredible bad luck.” 

“You’re saying we have another intruder?” Nick asked. 

“If you didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. They're the ones I'm after,” Dr. Song said. She smiled again, the corners of her mouth rising again, and _why_ was Nick so preoccupied with her mouth? “Now, your name?” 

“Director Nick Fury of SHIELD,” he said. 

She looked genuinely surprised for the second time. “What happened to Peggy?” 

Nick frowned. “She retired, years ago.” 

Dr. Song looked disappointed. “That’s too bad. I would have liked to see her again, but it appears I’m later than I thought I was.” 

Nick blinked. Absolutely none of that made any sense to him at all. Outside of a science lab, that didn’t happen very often. He opened his mouth to ask when an explosion rocked the Helicarrier, shaking the room and setting off a whole new set of alarms. _Thank God we’re in the water and not the air,_ he thought. He steadied himself to find that Dr. Song’s grin was gone. The explosion had knocked her to the floor, and her expression was deadly serious. 

“And the carrionites are early,” she said. “Damn it, I’m usually better than this.” 

“The what?” Nick asked, standing up and running around to help up the archaeologist.

“The carrionites,” Dr. Song explained. “They’re… well, _aliens_ trying to break into this dimension using their technology and something… else. I don’t know what it is, but I’m sure it’s something you’re storing on this gigantic monstrosity of yours!” 

Aliens. New Mexico. Fucking, goddamn extraterrestrials. “You gonna help us fight them?” 

Dr. Song grinned. “I was fighting them first. You and your lot are welcome to help me. If you can keep up.” 

Nick growled at that but mostly ignored it, as several pieces of information slotted together in his mind. The broken DNA reader, her strange clothes, no one had found any equipment, and how she seemed to know former Director Carter well enough to address the woman by her first name. “Are _you_ an alien, Dr. Song?” 

She paused. “That’s… complicated, Director. And, please, call me River. You are my soulmate, after all.” She held up her handcuffed wrists. “Help a girl out?” 

Nick unlocked them. At the moment, that was his best option. Last time aliens attacked… well, only the other aliens could actually do anything. He didn’t trust her, he really didn’t, but he did trust his ability to get her back into those handcuffs if he needed to. “After we get done with this, how about I buy you a drink and you can explain what ‘complicated’ means.” 

“Careful, sweetheart. I’m a married woman.” 

“You are?” 

River’s grin could rival the Mona Lisa’s. “Well, that’s complicated too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In River's head the Doctor='sweetie' and the Director='sweetheart.' I think. 
> 
> I'm sorry this didn't incorporate the song as much as I usually try to. My two attempts at it are the (rather mild) explosion, and the reference to the carrionites. (Burn through the witches.) Oh well. 
> 
> I really like the idea of River and Fury being soulmates, though i don't really know what that means for them, except that it would be terrifying for their enemies.
> 
> Sorry for taking so long to post this. I saw Age of Ultron and it kinda threw me for a loop... I usually like to work with canon. I'm not a fan of ignoring it entirely... but ... yeah, there are some things in Age of Ultron I'm gonna totally ignore. And that will probably change from chapter to chapter. I'll be more specific about it all in the chapter summaries so you can know what's going on and protect yourself from spoilers if you haven't seen it yet. (I'd still recommend seeing it, even though I don't agree with everything.) So... yeah, the next chapter that I'm working on will ignore AoU entirely, but after that, who knows? There are things in AoU I would like to explore, but it might be more of a plus ça change type deal than a je serai type deal.
> 
> Still doing this though. Thanks for reading this, you guys, by the way.


	4. Can't Hold Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be the poet and you the poetry: [Can't Hold Us by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2zNSgSzhBfM)

When she first started training, she thought she could get away with it. No one would put together the pieces, or, if they did, she could lie and say, “No, don’t be ridiculous. Carter’s a pretty common last name. Besides, do I sound British to you?” 

Sharon didn’t take into account that she was joining an organization full of people who sniff out secrets for a living. 

But it was more than that. She had Aunt Peggy’s jaw and Aunt Peggy’s right hook. She fought with the same determination; the same barely-contained frustration, bursting out of her with more force than elegance. She couldn’t slip in and out of her opponent’s reach like May or Romanoff, as if a fight was a dance. She just kept coming ‘til the poor bastard tapped out. She trained with guns that looked too big in her hands and glared at anyone who tried to give her something smaller. She was at least as accurate as her aunt, if not better. (And it had _nothing_ to do with her soulmark, thank you very much.) 

But… 

Sharon wasn’t her aunt. She didn’t walk with Peggy’s swagger, didn’t have Peggy’s strong, straight shoulders. She favored sweaters to blazers. When undercover, Peggy favored the bright covers, beautiful, bossy women. Sharon was better at being unassuming, being unseen. Being quiet and sweet. 

People couldn’t seem to decide whether or not Sharon being like her aunt was a good thing. Opinions ranged from despising her for some imagined nepotism to being disappointed in her for not being enough like Peggy to being frustrated with her for being too much like Peggy. What really irked Sharon, though, was that these people seemed to think they had a right to _any_ opinion at all. 

She was currently looking forward to unloading a clip into a target at the shooting range, and pretending it was Sitwell’s smug, stupid face. The upper level agent was a complete asshole; the sort of man who got into intelligence not to serve his country or protect anyone, but because he liked to have his fingers in as many pies as possible. He seemed to be one of the believers in nepotism. She was someone to be indulged, not someone to be taken seriously. His smile always looked like he was carefully masking a sneer. 

He’d been wearing that smiling facade when he debriefed her about that last mission. It had gone to hell. But Sharon had been expecting it to go to hell. It wasn’t a total loss, whatever Sitwell seemed to think. She pursed her lips. The mission almost seemed like it had been designed to go to hell. That thought was all kinds of fucked up, and Sharon seriously hoped she was just being paranoid. 

“I don’t think you’re being paranoid. I’d help you look into it, but...” Cameron said, shrugging. Sharon smiled at him, but didn’t press. She knew he was busy with something he wasn’t allowed to talk about, and she was smart enough not to ask questions. The clearance system annoyed her, but she understood the necessity. In an agency where everyone was trained to discover everyone else’s secrets, compartmentalization was the only way to regulate information.

She found the room she’d been looking for and headed inside. Cameron stopped at the threshold. 

“Are you… Are you insane?” he whispered, “This range is reserved for Strike Team Delta!”

“Calm down. You wanted me to help you with your firearm certification, didn’t you?”

“Yeah but not… not here! I was thinking something less…” 

“Everywhere else is either unavailable or crowded. This range is level six and up, but it’s hardly used. Plus it’s more challenging than any of the others,” Sharon said, getting Cameron set up.

“Yeah, because it’s for Strike Team Delta!” Cameron hissed, close to hyperventilating. 

“Calm down,” Sharon said. “Lesson one, you can’t be accurate if your hands are shaking.” 

Cameron frowned, looking from her to the targets she was selecting. “Yeah, I kinda figured that out for myself, thanks.” 

Sharon smiled, glad to see he’d stopped freaking out about what range they were using and focused on actually using it. She gave him a quick review of the gun he was using: clip, chamber, safety, magazine release, trigger, sights, etc, and adjusted his stance. Then she told him to fire. 

Cameron winced every time he pulled the trigger, squeezing his eyes closed.

“How was that?” the tech asked when the clip was empty. 

“Well,” Sharon hesitated. “You hit the target twice.” Not really in the center, either, but inside the black silhouette. If it had been a real person, Cameron would have grazed his arm. 

Cameron saw right through her attempts to placate. “Twice? Out of seventeen rounds?” 

Sharon smiled. “It’s better than nothing. Next time try not to wince when you’re shooting. And try to keep your eyes open the whole time.”

“You think that’ll help, huh?” Cameron deadpanned.

They heard a snicker in the booth next to them and Cameron turned to Sharon, the blood draining from his face. _“Shit!”_ he mouthed at her.

Sharon pursed her lips and shook her head. Instead of reacting, she just handed him another clip. “Let’s try again, okay? This time… try to keep your eyes open.” 

The snickering came from the other booth again, loud enough this time that Sharon could tell it was a man. She scowled in his direction but didn’t say anything. Cameron looked close enough to an aneurysm as it was. She looked back at her student and turned him away from trying to stare a hole in the wall of the booth. “Focus,” she said, pointing him toward the target and putting the ear muffs back on. 

She saw Cameron’s shoulders rise and fall as he took a deep breath to steady himself, but before he could fire, an arrow slammed directly into the heart of his target, causing him to jump and fire off a stray round into the ceiling. 

Sharon reached around him and put the safety on, furious. 

First of all, so what if this range was advanced enough it could be configured to just about any ranged weapon in existence, from knives and arrows to pistols and rifle? Right now, it was configured for pistols, so what the fuck was Hawkeye (she had no doubt that’s who it was) doing with bow? 

Second of all, that dangerous! All three of them were lucky Cameron’s stray shot hit the ceiling and not one of them. 

Thirdly, it was just mean. 

Sharon pressed her finger to her lips and motioned to Cameron that they should switch places. As silently as they could, they moved so Cameron was behind her, the gun in her hands. Then, she glanced at the target and shot the arrow off. 

“Good job, Cameron,” she said, grinning, glancing back at her friend. She was about to move to switch back with him when another arrow whacked into her target, this time about where the left eye would be. She scowled and shot it off. 

Another where the right eye would be. Sharon pursed her lips and shot that one off too. 

Arrows started appearing all over the range, some in targets, some not. It was the exact opposite of safe, but Sharon could be a bit like a pit bull, and right now her teeth were so far into this she could taste blood. 

She emptied her clip before Hawkeye had emptied his quiver, but Cameron was right there with a new one. She smiled at him, and gave him another compliment. “You’re doing really well, Cameron, but watch your stance.” He actually smiled, and she smiled back before turning forward again. 

Then she frowned.

Hawkeye’s newest challenge was… tricky. In the farthest corner of the room, an arrow stuck out millimeters from one of the security lasers protecting the range’s ventilation. In fact, from where Sharon was standing, it looked like the arrow was dead smack on the laser’s IR sensor. But she knew it couldn’t be. If it was, alarms would be going off all over this floor. 

The thing about bullets was they did a lot more damage than their size suggested. Sharon understood, for the first time, why Hawkeye preferred a weapon with shorter range and lower projectile velocity. As long as you can accurately adjust for things like sudden changes in wind speed or direction, you could do more delicate work. She remembered his affinity for trick arrows. There was a reason trick _bullets_ weren’t common.

All of this came down to one thing. Unless she hit the shaft of his arrow exactly right… she was going to trigger an alarm that would close down the range and summon security. Sharon wasn’t sure she could do it, but… pit bulls don’t let go. 

She carefully lined up her shot, mostly pretending the laser wasn’t there, and squeezed. 

The arrow’s shaft snapped up and spun in the air, and Sharon smiled. She had done it-

_Bee boo bee boo!_

Or not. The security alarms sounded across the whole floor. The flashing lights were a split second behind them, and the range shut down. Sharon sighed and unloaded the pistol and took off her earmuffs. “That was a good try, Cameron,” she said, wrapping her arm around him as they walked out. “But maybe next time let’s stick to aiming for the target?” 

Cameron was no longer smiling as they headed out into the hall toward the stairwell. Instead, he was staring fearfully at something ahead of them. Some _one_ ahead of them, really. It wasn’t hard to deduce who it was. She wasn’t going to look at him, though. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. 

“Nice shootin’, Tex,” he said, shouting loud enough to be heard over the alarm.

Sharon froze. Did he just say her soulwords? But she recovered quickly and kept walking. After all, as far as Hawkeye knew, it was Cameron who was doing the shooting, so he wouldn’t have been talking to her. 

Right? 

She glanced up at him, just a quick glance, and scowled in the direction of the floor. He was leaning casually against the wall, despite the blaring sirens and the flashing lights. And he wasn’t looking at Cameron. That famous Hawkeye gaze was focused on her. 

Fuck. 

Sharon ignored him. “We’ll try again tomorrow, okay?” she told Cameron. “Hopefully there’ll be fewer distractions.” She couldn’t resist sending a glare Hawkeye's way. The sniper definitely noticed and a smug smirk spread over his square face. The expression indicated that, no, there probably wouldn’t be fewer distractions.

“I-” Cameron started, when, suddenly, the alarms quit. “Oh, thank God.” But his relief was short lived when Assistant Director Hill stormed in. 

“I expected as much from you, Barton,” she said. “But, Agent 13? How could you be so reckless?” 

Hawkeye looked surprised for a second before grinning. “I knew it was you,” he said to Sharon. She spared him only a quick glance before turning back to Hill.

“My apologizes,” she said. 

“Aw, come on!” Hawkeye protested. “You’re going to give up that easily?” 

Sharon glared and turned on Hawkeye. “First of all, she’s right. What we did was needlessly dangerous. Second of all, she isn’t the _jerk_ who initiated a dick measuring contest with a novice trying to _learn._ Are you always such a bully or is this just a special occasion?” 

Instead of wilting or bristling or any of the things normal people did when Sharon yelled at them, Hawkeye’s smile shifted from mockingly amused to surprised but genuinely pleased. “Yeah, I’d think this is a very special occasion.” Sharon looked confused. Playing dumb was her default strategy, but she short of suspected where this was going. Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. “Or do all the people who compliment your aim call you Tex?” 

No denying it now, Sharon thought, shifting her weight back to her heels. “Oh,” she said. 

Hill had figured it out by now too. As had a gaping Cameron, but Hill was faster on her feet. “Come along, Agent Klein,” Hill said, taking the tech analyst and pulling him out of the hallway. 

“I’m Clint Barton,” Hawkeye, _Clint_ , said. “Part time sniper, full time smartass.” He stuck out his hand. 

“Sharon Carter,” she said, her amusement leaking through at the corners of her mouth. “Part time member of SHIELD Special Service, full time adversary of bullies.” 

Clint had the decency to look a little sheepish. “I’m not usually a bully, you know.” 

“We’ll have to work on whittling that ‘not usually,’ down to ‘never,’” Sharon said. 

“You’re not going to let me get away with _anything,_ are you?” 

Sharon grinned. “No. But, if you’re good, I might occasionally pretend to.”

“Well,” Clint said as he closed the distance between them. “It looks like I’m the world’s luckiest son of a bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cameron Klein is the techie who refused to launch the Helicarriers, btw. The "Captain's orders," guy.
> 
> A HUGE thank you to everyone who helped me with this chapter, which includes [ozhawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ozhawk), [LadyWinterlight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWinterlight), [miss_moonstone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_moonstone), [Orlha](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Orlha), and [NerdyKat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyKat).


	5. My Boy Builds Coffins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be the poet and you the poetry: [My Boy Builds Coffins by Florence + the Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CeATvJpBpe4)
> 
> Trigger warning for mentions of death and suicide! Take care of yourselves, people!
> 
> Check the chapter notes for a bonus scene!

Wanda felt a burning on the inside of her forearm when the Vision was born. She wanted to ignore it, not needing her skill with probabilities to predict who it corresponded too. What she wanted didn’t matter though, as as instinct overrode her and she looked underneath the leather sleeve she wore to see the words _Look again_ printed there. The font was too precise to be human handwriting.

She hadn’t thought about it before. Hadn’t even considered that something so… inhuman could have a soulmark. The thing that came out of the Cradle… to know it was connected to her by Fate was awful. That she could be connected to Ultron in such a way, a creature who dreamed of destruction with such longing Wanda could taste it. The memory of Ultron’s dream was imprinted on her mind so strongly she would never forget it. And now… she rubbed her forearm. Now Ultron was imprinted on her body too. 

She could read Ultron before, but it was only because he had been letting her. With the Mind Stone in his forehead, he could have easily blocked her out, the way the Vision was doing now. The fact that Ultron had let her read his dreams was something she didn’t much want to think about now that she- now that she knew he- no that was a sentence she couldn’t finish no matter how she phrased it. 

This brand though… would she ever be able to make up for all the lives she’d endangered, all the lives already taken? With him on her arm beckoning her into his brain? 

_I’m scared,_ she said to her brother. If nothing else, she had Pietro and Pietro had her. He wouldn’t let her be consumed by any machine. 

_We’ll fix it,_ he thought back at her. He wasn’t as controlled in his thoughts as she was, but they’d been together their whole lives. Since getting her powers, she was always in his head. It felt right there. Other people’s minds had been a minefield until she learned how to properly navigate them, but Pietro was always safe. 

“I think I’ve had my fill of new,” Rogers was saying. 

The… that thing focused on the captain. “You think I’m a child of Ultron?” he asked. 

_If you aren’t a child of Ultron, then what are you?_

“You’re not?” Rogers asked. 

“I’m not Ultron. I’m not Jarvis. I am… I am…” 

“I looked into your head and saw annihilation,” Wanda accused, and it was her fault. All her fault. Yes, sooner or later every man shows himself, but she should have known sooner. After all, Ultron was the child of Stark. And he said it himself. People make children designed to supplant them. 

The Vision caught her eyes, and she felt the Mind Stone shift. “Look again.” It was no longer closing her out but welcoming her in, with a kind of desperate temptation that frightened her. She stared into that thing’s eyes and wondered if she’d ever be able to leave his mind if she entered it. Wanda was certain that Ultron would never have let her go. 

She didn’t dare look. She couldn’t. After all she had faced at the hands of Stark, at the hands of Hydra. This one simple thing she could not do.

It was the archer, of all people, who saved her. “Yeah, Her seal of approval means jack to me.” And Wanda, for once, was grateful these people hated her. For once it was a source of relief.

***

Since getting her powers, Wanda was always in Pietro’s head. It felt right there. Pietro’s mind had always been safe.

Until it wasn’t. 

She remembered feeling the lead tear through his body as if it was her own. The pain that radiated out through each wound. And in that second between her brother’s hot, red pain and his cold, black death, Wanda had never been more grateful for her powers. For her ability to send him one last thought.

If one tried to translate the thought into spoken words, _I love you, brother_ was the closest one could get. But it was more than that. It was every happy memory with their parents, and all the bittersweet ones afterward. It was his arm around her shoulders, holding her close when she was overwhelmed by the world. It was his righteous anger, next to her and for her, always ready to fight for his sister and what they believed. It was his dumb grin when he told stupid jokes, or the feeling of his knuckles on her head when they were little and he just _had_ to prove he was stronger. Every time he made her mad, every time he made her cry, and every time he made her laugh. It was their entire life together and how much she loved every single second of it. 

Pietro knew all that, but she was so thankful she had the chance to tell him one last time just how much she loved him. 

And, one second later, as he dropped to the ground she experienced his death as if it was hers, quickly gone, and yet it felt like an eternity in the moment. An eternity of fading away. It wasn’t peaceful, it was painful, and Wanda fell to her knees with the agony of it. And in that second, she had never hated her powers more. 

She hadn’t been exaggerating to Ultron when she told him she died. Nor had she been when she explained what it felt like. Wanda would never be able to forget that moment. Like seeing Ultron’s dreams, feeling Pietro die was similarly imprinted on her. In her nightmares, they were usually twisted together in some horrifying combination designed to torture her. 

She was staring out the window of the new Avengers facility, into the blackness of night when she heard footsteps behind her. Wanda didn’t turn. She doubted there were many living her who slept easily. She hoped they would know enough to leave her alone. 

“Wanda?” 

She recognized the voice of the Vision and crossed her arms over her chest. He was the _last_ person she wanted to talk to, brand on her arm or no. Child of Ultron or no. “Can’t you sleep?” she asked him. 

“I don’t sleep,” he replied. 

“It seems I don’t either, anymore,” she said. 

“Wanda,” he said, haltingly. “I believe we need to talk.” 

“We’re talking now.” 

“About... “ he sighed. “Wanda, please look at me.” 

She turned to him, meeting his gaze with a none too friendly expression. 

He wasn’t phased. “These are your words, aren’t they?” he asked, turning to reveal her writing pressed into his shoulder. Not printed or tattooed like most people, but etched in, like someone had carved it into his metal skin. 

“Yes,” she said, and turned back to the darkness outside. 

“I thought it might be,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what this means; any more than you do. But I would like to find out together… if you’re amenable.” 

Wanda’s hands clenched into fists. “You shouldn’t have saved me,” she whispered. Vision caught it anyway. “I don’t deserve it.”

“I will always save you,” he said with a conviction that startled her. 

She shook her head and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I don’t want you to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [NerdyKat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyKat) for looking this over for me!
> 
>  
> 
> [Bonus Scene](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3832873/chapters/11182339)


	6. I'm Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be the poet and you the poetry: [I'm Alive from Next to Normal](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZAhgX7RleDQ)
> 
> Wade get's a soulmate. (Don't check the tags to see who! That's cheating!)

Wade. I think it’s important that you and I come to an agreement. Here and now. You can talk as much as you want, but we are _not_ going to get sidetracked, okay? This story has a point. We are going to get there. Agreed? Wade? 

“I’mnotagreeingtoanythingyouleftmealoneformonthswhereyousaidyou’dgetomeandthenyoudidn’tIdon’tthinkI’mgoingtobe-” 

Wade! Do you want a soulmate or not? 

“Of fucking course I want a soulmate! And you were supposed to give me that soulmate, but, lady, you left me alone for months. Months of nothing! No drafts! Not even prewrites! Not even talking about it with your friends! Months of ‘I’ll get to it later!’” 

Stop whining. I’m here now. Let’s do this. But we’re going to stay on point, alright? 

“We didn’t even start on point. What makes you think we’re going to stay on it?” 

I hate you. 

“The feeling is mutual. But, sure, I’ll try to stay on track.” 

...Okay, now I’m suspicious… 

“Just start the story!” 

The man in the red suit was sitting in a tree, contemplating the fenced-in compound spread out before him. He was known as Deadpool, the Merc with the Mouth, the Big Crybaby, (“Hey!”) and sometimes even Wade Wilson. Whether that last was his actual name or not, nobody knew. Not even him. But he liked it, so he’d claimed it until a better one came along. 

Right now, Wade was planning how he was going to get inside. The convoy holding his target had gone in a while ago. Now all he needed was a big, dramatic entrance. He was a drama queen and-

“Hey! I’ll have you know that dramatic entrances are a _necessity_ in the superhuman business. Stark is heavy competition. I’ve got to up my game if I wanna beat him!” 

Personally, I think Thor’s the one to beat. His entrances knock Tony out of the water. 

“Well, Thor’s not on Earth right now, is he? So, right now, Stark’s the one to beat. Also? You’re welcome.” 

For what? 

“‘Thor’s not on Earth right now?’ Didn’t you see how smoothly I dropped that exposition for you?”

Well, thanks, but are we sure that's relevant? Also, you kinda ruined it. 

“Think of it as part of my vengeance for ignoring me for months.” 

Ugh. Why am I in your head? I should be writing this from-

“Don’t! I want it to be a surprise!” 

Well, you’ll be surprised alright… I think. 

“I’ll fake it for you if I’m not.” 

How… considerate. 

“Hey, I’m a considerate guy. Now, all of you shut up! I’ve got to concentrate.” 

All of us?... While the author was thanking God for choosing to write in the third person instead of first, Wade jumped off his tree branch and slammed into the ground, somehow managing to land on his feet despite the distance traveled. 

Now, there were two ways to get into this compound. 

One. Sneak in Black Widow style. Nobody sees; nobody knows. At least until he’s unalived who he came here to unalive. 

Two. Burst in, unalive anyone who tried to stop him. Destroy the whole compound. 

He had a natural predilection for option two, but that would set off alarms and possibly cause his target to evacuate before he actually got to the guy. Which would be annoying. But he could compromise. Sneak in quietly, unalive the target, then burst out. Not exactly the dramatic entrance he was hoping for, but it would hopefully provide a dramatic exit. 

Wade slipped into the compound carefully, using mostly spy movie cliches, like cutting through the fence with a laser and crawling through the air vents. What? He didn't have a lot of experience with stealth, but all he knew he learned from Tom Cruise. There were worse schools of thought. Sean Connery, for example, would have totally gotten caught by now. 

He found his target quickly, due either to previous study of the compound or plot convenience. You pick. He looked down from the grate in the air conditioning vents to see a... disturbingly familiar scene. His target had a person strapped down and it looked like he was trying to experiment on him without the experimental person's consent. As someone who had also been an unethical lab rat, Wade decided being careful was over. 

He dove head first through the grate, rolling as he hit the ground and came up with a pistol in each hand. 

The target's bodyguards had started firing as soon as he came through the vent and... well, unfortunately, they had some pretty good aim. But not good enough to stop him. He wore the red suit today after all. (His target’s bodyguards were not wearing the brown pants. Stupid stupid men.)

Wade fired three bullets. There were four bodyguards, but he managed to shoot two in the head with one shot. "Didja see that?" he asked. "That was awesome!" 

Alarms were blaring though, so he had to move quickly. He pulled out one of his katanas and turned to unalive his target...

And stopped. "What the fuck? You're not Colonel Striker!"

Wait... Colonel Striker? You’re after Colonel Striker? 

"Yeah, that asshole who sewed my mouth shut! He was supposed to be here." 

Oh... Wade, sweetie, that's not in continuity anymore. 

"What the fuck? I know it wasn't a very good movie, but you just erased it from continuity?" 

Well, in the last film, Bryan Singer had Wolverine go back in time and pretty much erase all of the Ratner films and Origins from the timeline. 

"Fucking Brett Ratner," Wade said. "What about me then?" 

I don't know. On the plus side, you get your own movie. But it hasn't come out yet. 

"Awesome! Who plays me?" 

Ryan Reynolds.

"Cool! He's a hottie!" 

I know. 

"Start making sense right now," his not-target demanded, "or, for the love of God, just kill me." 

"Who even are you?" Wade asked. 

The not-target drew himself up and puffed out his chest. "General Thaddeus Ross," he said. "And as soon as the reinforcements get here, you'll see what the _real_ United States army is made of." 

Wade paused for a moment before so many words flooded out of his mouth. "Aw man. There's so much I want to say to that... Like, are those not the real United States army then? Were they Marines? They didn't go down like Marines." He focused on Ross. "And... Thaddeus?" He turned to the guy they were experimenting on. "You let yourself get experimented on by a guy named Thaddeus? I can't believe anyone's even named Thaddeus, much less anyone in charge of something. Aw man, your evil military nemesis outranks my evil military nemesis!" 

The man strapped to the slab made a kind of choking sound, which was alarming until he spoke. "He's not my nemesis." 

Wade's eye bulged out of his head, and he ran around to actually get a good look at the guy, practically ripping off the restraints. "Holy shit! You're Bruce Banner! Oh my God! How big even is your soulmark? Nevermind. Look at you! You're adorable! This is awesome!" He gently helped Bruce sit up. "Thank you!"

Bruce frowned. "Um... you're welcome?" 

"I wasn't talking to you." 

You're welcome, Wade. 

"I am _definitely_ surprised. This the best day of my life! My soulmate is totally hot!" Bruce blushed and Wade pretended not to notice. Instead, he looked at Thaddeus. "How did a guy named Thaddeus capture Bruce Banner?"

"Thor was off world, and the Avengers got a call to deal with a hostage situation. They don’t like to bring me during hostage situations. I was all on my own," Bruce said, then frowned. "You orchestrated that, didn't you?" 

Thaddeus frowned, but didn't dignify that with a reply. Possibly because he realized he was in a room with an unrestrained Bruce Banner, his soulmate Deadpool, and no guards.

Wade was grinning though. "See! See! I told you Thor being on Asgard would be relevant! I told you!" 

Bruce frowned. "What-" 

Then the doors to the lab burst open and a ton of Thaddeus's cannon fodder filed in, guns blazing. Bruce flipped the table he'd been strapped to, dragged Wade behind the makeshift cover. And, as previously stated, Thaddeus's guys were actually quite good at aiming, so he had a couple of bullet holes seeping blood. Bruce was too close for this to be hidden by a red suit. 

"No. No, no, no. I just found you," he said, his voice endearingly desperate. Aw. He cared about Wade already. 

Wade smiled and sighed and took his sexy soulmate's face between his hands. "Relax. I'm not going to die." 

"But you-" 

"Shh," Wade interrupted. "I have, like, the most ridiculous healing factor you've ever seen. I survived getting my head cut off once. Well, apparently that's not in continuity anymore, but the point still stands. These are not gonna kill me. Nothing's gonna kill me. I could get chopped into bite sized pieces and as long as someone put most of them back together, I'd heal good as new." He did not mention that it would kill him but he’d come back to life. Poor Bruce looked confused enough as it was. Then Wade had a flash of insight. "This also means I'm Hulk-proof. Just in case you wanted to go green and help me destroy this place." He looked down. "See? I'm already healed." 

Bruce looked at Wade's chest to find the wounds were indeed gone. He prodded with a hand Wade noticed was very warm. No stereotypical cold doctor hands for his soulmate. Wade blushed a little, but... he was wearing the red suit. Then Bruce smiled, and Wade blushed a lot harder. "Do you always talk this much?" he asked. 

"Usually more," Wade said. 

He chuckled, an oddly incongruous sound when one remembered they were surrounded by gun fire. "Tony's not going to be able to get a word in edgewise." Bruce smiled. "He's either going to love you or hate you, I don't know which." 

"'s usually the second one." Bruce frowned and Wade felt bad, so he distracted him. "You wanna get out of here and go make out?" he asked. This time it was Bruce blushing, which made Wade feel very smug. "Or get out of here and go get pizza and then make out? I'm very flexible." He winked, and Bruce blushed harder. 

"Let's just concentrate on getting out of here first," Bruce said. "We can think about food later." 

"I'm always thinking about food. But I see your point! Let's go make the bad guys say ‘ouchie!’" 

Wade finally got his dramatic exit, riding on the shoulders of the Hulk. He played sniper as his soulmate smashed the compound to tiny, tiny pieces. And they lived happily ever after. 

"Happily ever after? Seriously?"

Shut up, Wade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm never writing from Wade's POV again. (Or at least, I won't for a while.) 
> 
> As for how this fits into the song, I will let you make up your own minds. I didn't include and specific imagery or references... except for that last part, with the piggy backs. Mostly it was just the tone. Loud, desperate to be heard, and kinda crazy.
> 
> Also, it would appear I'm the first person to write a Bruce Banner/Wade Wilson story on AO3 (or at least the first person to tag it) so yay! Accomplishment! I could put that on my resume. (I'm not. But I could.)


	7. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be the poet and you the poetry: [Run by Kill It Kid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDeRyvnPN5k)

Growing up, Darcy was pretty sure her soulmate was a complete asshole.

  
Her soulmark curved up around her thigh like a slutty autograph. _You know who I am._ Darcy was a cynical person at heart. She imagined some guy who hadn’t quite realized his fifteen minutes of fame were long over. He looked at her over douche shades and flashed her an arrogant grin. “You know who I am,” he’d say with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  
She still dreamed though. Maybe, just maybe, under the ego was someone she liked. But she’d have to break the ego down first. Darcy cultivated an ability to devastate 90% of men with a few sharp words. For the remaining 10%, she bought a taser. Of course, the first man she’d used it on wasn’t her soulmate but Jane’s. Whatever. At least she knew it worked. Besides, Thor turned from an asshole into a Disney prince, so all hope was not lost for Darcy Lewis. At least, in the soulmate area. She'd pretty much given up hope of getting to the new Avengers facility on time.

  
It was zero dark thirty in the morning. The sun hadn’t risen yet. A lighter patch of dark sky in the east illuminated the silhouettes of yet another cornfield. Seriously? Was it illegal to grow something other than corn in Indiana?

  
Thor convinced Jane to move into the new Avenger facility. Tony Stark offered them his private jet. It was a nice jet. Darcy knew this because the private jet had flown her to New Mexico where she picked up Jane's Winnebago. Jane couldn't have taken the thing to London, but no ocean was stopping her from having it now.

  
Darcy couldn’t even be mad at Jane for not going to pick up the stupid thing herself. Jane would have gone, but she was pregnant with a demi-god. Darcy thought it best if Jane _didn’t_ drive a large RV across a continent. (Also, Darcy had hoped Jane would decide she needed Darcy more than she needed the van. But no. The Winnebago was vitally important for some reason.)

  
It wasn’t the worst thing Darcy had ever done for Jane, but it was by far the most boring. God, was it boring. She’d tried to make the trip in two days, but that had turned out to be ridiculous. She’d given up somewhere around Wichita, Kansas the first night. Last night, she'd stopped somewhere around Indianapolis. At least she didn’t have to find a motel room for the night.

  
_Today though,_ Darcy thought, pulling on her clothes and her shoes. Today she was going to push hard and finally get to New York. It was going to happen. No doubt about it. She stepped out of the van, locked up, and walked across a couple parking lots to a small diner. It was going to happen after she got herself some scrambled eggs and sausage. Darcy had been eating instant oatmeal for the past two days.

  
The diner was pretty sleepy. Darcy did a quick headcount as she slid into an empty booth. There were maybe eight people there, excluding her. One tired waitress, a cook, a family of three looking far too chipper, and three dudes all sitting alone. Two of them had coffee. One of them had an untouched plate of pancakes.

  
Darcy was pretty shocked to recognize the pancake guy. He noticed, narrowing his eyes at her, but Darcy covered. She turned to the waitress. “You guys have pancakes?” she asked, trying to sound as incredulous as she looked.

  
The waitress looked confused. “Um, yeah. Would you… like some?”

  
“Yes please,” Darcy said. She didn’t actually like pancakes, but the Winter Soldier was no longer peering at her.

  
She pulled out her phone to text Sam Wilson.

  
_Bucky Barnes is in my diner right now! GET HERE!!_ She hadn’t said where she was, but she was sure Vision already knew.

  
He replied immediatley. _On our way. Sit tight._

  
What followed was a fucked up game of Heads Up Seven Up. Darcy had touched Barnes’s thumb. Now she had to find a balance between conspicuously staring at him and conspicuously not staring at him.

  
_Nothing to see here,_ she thought. _I’m just sippin’ my coffee, waiting for my grody pancakes, and doin’ a little people watchin.’ I’m not staring at anyone in particular. See? I’m totally looking at this guy over here with the coffee and the sudoku game… that he’s not filling in… oh crap._ Darcy had seen her fair share of bad guys in her day. Not just the alien ones, but a couple of your ordinary hoping-to-kidnap-themselves-a-famous-astrophysicist-to-help-build-a-doomsday-device as well. 2015 had been an educational year. 

  
Darcy stared down into her coffee cup. The question was… were they here for her or were they here for Barnes?

  
Actually, no. The real question was whether an Avenger would get here before it mattered. She texted Sam again.

  
_Shady folk spotted. Not sure who they’re after._

  
The reply was swift. _Noted._ Not helpful.

  
Ugh! Darcy took another sip of coffee. Well… if Sam wasn’t going to help... She stood and walked the three steps to Barnes's table and sat down across from him. He jumped and glared but didn't move away or try to stab her. Darcy took that as a good sign. “Do you think they’re after you or me?” she asked, nodding her head in the direction of not-actually-doing-any-sudoku guy.

  
The Winter Soldier blinked at her like someone who hasn’t quite woken up yet. “You know who I am?” he asked.

  
Darcy started.

  
It was not at _all_ how she imagined. He wasn’t arrogant. He was scared. He was alone. He was _lost._

  
She stretched her arm forward on the table, fingertips not quite touching his hand. “You’re James Barnes,” she murmured, “and I’m Darcy Lewis. And the man over there isn’t actually doing sudoku.”

  
Barnes looked from her to the man who was now openly staring at them and scowling. Darcy was still whispering. “I have friends who are coming,” she said. “But I don’t know whether they’ll get here before whoever he is decides to move.” She took a breath. “You said my soulwords.” Barnes’s gaze snapped back to her. She gave him a rueful grin. “I’d show you, but I can’t while we’re in public.”

  
Barnes stared at her. She tried to read his expression, but he still just looked lost to her. His hand inched forward to cover her own. His palm felt cold against her fingers.

  
“When I say,” Barnes said, “Run. Run and don’t look back.”

  
Darcy grabbed his fingers and held on tight. “Honey, I’m not going anywhere without you.”

  
His gaze intensified, focusing hard. Barnes's face transformed from lost puppy to deadly sniper. Darcy blinked. His irises were blue, she realized. A dark blue. She’d thought they were brown, watching him from farther away. His dark hair and dark shadows obscured his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere good,” he said.

  
“I’ll keep you company." Darcy did not survive two alien invasions to be deterred by a human dude. Even if he was enhanced. Even if he was her soulmate.

  
He must have been better at reading her than she was at reading him, because he nodded. “Alright. When I say, _we’ll_ run. Ready?”

  
Darcy nodded.

  
They each tightened their hold on the other.

  
“Run.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now they're about to run for their lives from men with guns. Isn't that adorable?
> 
> The more I do these, the more I find the challenge is in embedding the song firmly into the short. But it's fun, first of all. Second of all, it makes me do a lot more with setting and description than I would normally do. So I'm going to work harder to... not make the song stuff more obvious necessarily. But try to more deliberately include things.
> 
> Though in this one I should hope it's pretty obvious. (But, honestly, the song Run by Kill It Kid doesn't have a lot to pull from.)
> 
> Indiana is deliberate too. According to my research, 616 Bucky was born there. It's my MCU headcanon that his sister, Rebecca, moved out to Indiana when she got married. Bucky went out there looking for her but only found a headstone.


	8. Just Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be the poet, you the poetry: [Just Tonight by The Pretty Reckless](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y7VGOnV2QhU)

All the Avengers had pasts, and all those pasts came back to haunt them. Usually they came back with bigger teeth than anyone remembered. Even Sam had a few enemies the Avengers needed to take out. But, out of everyone, it was the skeletons in Thor’s closet that Natasha hated the most. Even more than her own.

Natasha’s past included a lot of cloak and dagger, backstabbing, spies. They could be awful, but she knew how to deal with them all. Thor’s enemies? Well, Thor’s enemies were just weird.

“So they’re _not_ living tree things,” Natasha said, ducking some branches reaching for her.

“No,” Thor said, having finally been convinced to wear a comm. “Tis an uncommon Light Elf armor.”

“I can see why,” Cap said, fighting another battalion a couple blocks away. “It’s not strong, is it?”

“It has other advantages,” Thor said.

“Like what?” Vision asked.

Natasha wove around the swords and the branches, trying to find an opening to disable the elf inside. She winced when something hit her in the neck. Natasha pulled a thin, purple needle from her skin. Crap. “Like poison darts,” she said. Or tried to say. It came out more like “Like poisssnarts.” Double crap. It worked quick.

“Lady Natasha!” Thor shouted, sounding concerned, bless him.

“Thhhhhhhink I miiiightbe...” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

But Steve got the gist. “Vision, get Nat out of here. Thor, is there an antidote?”

“Not on Midgard,” was the reply. Natasha felt herself being picked up by the Vision. It wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear, but it wasn’t the worst thing ever. There was a cure somewhere… but not on Earth.

Time skipped, and she was lying on... um, something? “Do not fear, Natasha,” whispered a voice she was pretty sure was Thor. But he sounded like he was underwater. “I will take you home to get the antidote. You need to hold on. Only hold on.”

Natasha tried to say “that sounds easier said than done,” but her tongue wouldn’t move. She slipped out of time then, not sure what was up, down, left, or right. Fuck, she hated having to be the damsel in distress.

The next thing she knew, her skin was prickling. Just on her calf, but was it a symptom of the poison spreading? Should she tell someone? Could she? She tried to figure out where she was.

 _Фокус Наталья,_ she thought. _Вы обучались лучше. Фокус._

“You can’t ask me not to tell him,” a woman’s voice was saying.

“I’m not. Tell my father everything. But she will die without our help.”

“He won’t be pleased. You know what happened last time you brought a mortal woman to Asgard.”

Thor, who was holding her now, stilled. “I know.” His voice was dark and Natasha struggled to say something. Do something. Anything. Nothing happened.

“I am sorry,” the woman said, and Natasha heard footsteps heading away.

Doors opened and she heard Thor shout for someone named Eir before time slipped away from her _again._

When she opened her eyes, an older woman with brown hair was leaning over her. She could tell by the assessing expression on her face that the woman was a scientist of some kind. A doctor? And she could tell by the odd dress the woman was wearing that she was Asgardian. Natasha tried to sit up. The woman frowned and and pushed her shoulders down. “Don’t try it,” she said. “You’ll need at least until tomorrow before your body has recovered from the poison.”

“You’re going to be fine, though,” Thor said, and Natasha shifted to see him smiling at her. “It’s the least we could do after you help us fight our enemies.”

“Thanks,” Natasha said. “So this is Asgard?”

“This is the infirmary in the palace,” Thor said. “I’d offer to show you the rest of it, but I doubt I’d be allowed.”

“Daddy dearest doesn’t approve of you bringing strange women into the house?” she asked.

“Not when they’re Midgardian,” Thor said, his face clouding over.

“Sounds kind of-” but they were interrupted by the doors opening and two people walking in. One was an older man with an eye-patch Natasha deduced was Odin. The other was a woman with dark hair and blue eyes, wearing armor. She wore a pained expression. Natasha recognized it as “I don’t want to do this but I have to,” because Natasha was used to wiping that expression from her own face.

“What do I have to do to break your habit of bringing your Midgardian conquests to Asgard?” Odin asked, somewhere between furious and exasperated.

“I am not his conquest,” Natasha said, wrinkling her nose. “That’s disgusting.”

Thor made a face, but an amused one. Odin scowled. The woman next to the king stifled a smile. Luckily for her, Natasha was the only one who seemed to notice. She sent the warrior a smug grin and felt gratified to see the woman actually blush in response.

“Father,” Thor began, but he sounded resigned already. “She was injured while-”

“She’s mortal,” Odin grumbled. “They get injured quite a lot. If you’re going to drag back every pretty girl with a cough, our infirmary will stop being of use to our own people.”

“What if I only bring the ones who were injured fighting _our_ enemies?” Thor asked. He was not quite shouting yet, but the growl in his voice told Natasha he was close to it.

“They are not Asgard’s enemies,” Odin replied, equally close to losing his temper. “They are _your_ enemies.”

“Then it is my responsibility to take-”

“But not Eir’s!” Odin shouted, losing his temper first. “You waste her time and resources with your foolish-”

“It is not foolish!” Thor shouted back.

Odin glared at his son for a moment before glancing at the woman at his side and then Natasha. His gaze lingered on her for longer than she thought it should have. If he considered mortals as worthless as he kept saying, he wouldn't need to assess her. Natasha didn’t react. She didn’t have any real information to react with… but it was something to consider. If Odin is lying about why he doesn’t want humans on Asgard, then what is the truth?

Odin looked back at his son. “Perhaps we may continue this conversation in private?” he asked. Considering the alacrity with which Thor stepped to, Natasha thought it was more of an order.

The king turned to his warrior. “Stay here.” _Guard the mortal_ was unspoken but no one was stupid enough to miss it. The woman nodded while Thor and Odin strode out of the room. The shouting resumed almost as soon as the doors closed behind them.

“Мудак,” Natasha murmured.

The woman frowned at her. “You think it wise to say that of the king whose country you are a guest in?” she scolded.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Ты говоришь по-русски?” she asked.

The woman nodded. “All-Speak. I speak every language.”

“That sounds useful,” Natasha said, "I apologize for offending you."

"I forgive you, though His Majesty probably wouldn't,” she said. "I'm Lady Sif."

Natasha nodded. "Sif. Thor's mentioned you. He says you're a good one to have on his side."

Sif blushed again. "He's said the same of you." Then she paused. Natasha waited for the other woman to decide whether she was going to say what she was thinking or not.

“Milady,” the Asgardian said after several seconds. “Your crest, is it two red triangles with the points touching each other?”

Natasha blinked. “I’m not sure I’d call that my crest, exactly, but... I suppose I’ve used the symbol of a red hourglass for a long time.”

Sif sat on the edge of Natasha’s bed and unlaced one of her vambraces. A red hourglass framed by black stalks of wheat marked her forearm. “When I was younger and stupider, I used to draw stalks of wheat as a way to sign my letters.” Sif frowned. “It was childish, but I suppose I haven’t adopted any other symbols since then.”

“Black wheat?” Natasha asked.

“It was gold at the time,” Sif admitted. “I’m not surprised it’s black now.”

Natasha raised her hand, intending to touch the skin of the other woman’s arm, but froze. She realized what Sif must be showing her. “This is your soulmark,” she said.

Sif nodded. “I suspect one will have appeared on you somewhere as well.”

“I have a soulmate,” Natasha murmured, her hands clenching into fists. She hadn’t had words. Not ever. Though some had pitied her, Natasha had always considered it a good thing. Students of the Red Room had trained to kill their mates. True, Natasha was about as far out of their reach now as it was possible to get, but she still remembered. Old lessons were hard to unlearn. Natasha looked up from her lap into Sif’s blue eyes, illuminated by the lamp above the bed. “Do you understand who I am?” Do you want to?

Sif nodded. “I do.”

Nat frowned. “Do you really? I’m-”

“A warrior and a survivor and a woman who is more than worthy of my respect.”

“I wasn’t always,” Nat said. “I used to be-”

Sif quieted Natasha by placing two fingers over her lips. Her illuminated eyes were serious. “What you were is in the past. I know what you are now, and that is more important. It is equally important you understand what I am now.”

Natasha breathed, and her nose filled with the smell of a faintly floral soap Sif used on her hands. She didn’t say anything, allowing Sif the time gather her thoughts. It also gave Natasha the luxury of memorizing that scent.

“I am a warrior, a well regarded one. The first woman in Asgard to achieve such a rank. I have worked hard to be where I am, close by the king’s side, one of his trusted protectors.” Sif did not stop touching Natasha, but her hand moved from the woman’s lips to her cheek. This time Nat did not allow herself any luxuries, though she wanted to lean into the touch. “His Majesty will not allow Thor to keep his soulmate on Asgard, so I doubt I would be allowed. It is possible he would allow me out of my vows to live on Midgard with you, but…” Sif hesitated.

Natasha understood. She could see her soulmate’s dilemma as if she was looking into the woman’s mind. “But your image of a female warrior as capable and dependable as a man would be destroyed.”

Sif nodded. “I can’t… I’m training some girls who wish to join the palace guard one day… I can’t leave them. Especially not with more prejudice they would have to surmount.”

“And it doesn’t sound like Odin would allow you to just… jaunt over to Earth on your days off,” Natasha said.

Sif sighed. “It seems Fate has not given us much time together. Just tonight.”

“Fate’s a bitch,” Natasha muttered. One night wasn’t enough. Natasha wanted to know this woman, this other half of her soul. But one night? She couldn’t learn everything she wanted to know in one night. She could barely learn everything she wanted to know in one lifetime.

Sif chuckled, but it sounded hollow. “I’m inclined to agree.” She sighed. “My lady-”

“Natasha,” Natasha insisted.

“Natasha. I cannot court you properly, but... and I understand if you say no. It’s most inappropriate, and possibly will be more painful for both of us. But I would like to stay with you tonight. Please.”

Natasha swallowed. She had trained to do without many luxuries. And Sif was right. The morning would be more painful if Sif stayed the night. Her training told her to say no. To give up the luxury. To avoid the pain it would cause.

Only this didn’t feel like a luxury at all.

Natasha threw away her concerns and her training and her past. She pressed her face into her soulmate’s touch. “Stay.”

Sif nodded. “I will stay.”

They spent the night exchanging light touches and soft kisses. They listened to each other's heartbeats tick away their time.

And in the morning, Thor took Natasha home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak Russian; I just used Google translate. If anyone reading this _does_ speak Russian and wants to correct me, that would be awesome.
> 
> Anyway, I had about two thirds of this written for... well, for months, and then I just did the rest of it quickly today. I'm not sure I like it... I'm not sure I like how I've portrayed Natasha in this one... but whatever I guess. I'm still posting it. Obviously.


	9. I Wish I Was James Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be the poet and you the poetry: [ James Bond by Scouting For Girls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6eXsBj9BCdM)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between Iron Man 1 and Iron Man 2 and also between Quantum Solace and Skyfall.
> 
> TW: Uncouth language. People getting shot.

“Why couldn’t _you_ be wearing the monkey suit?” Clint hissed into his earpiece.

Natasha chuckled from a rooftop away, backing him up with a sniper rifle. “Not so easy, is it?”

“This is uncomfortable. How do people wear these?”

“I don’t know, Barton,” Nat replied. “You look pretty great in that suit.”

“I’d rather wear a speedo through piranha infested waters.”

“At least you're not wet.”

“But there’s decreased mobility-”

“Could you two _please_ focus on the mission?” Maria asked, monitoring them from an unmarked van three blocks away. “Jesus, how does Phil deal with you two?”

“He’s usually just lets us do whatever we want,” Clint said.

“Nice try, Barton.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Clint asked. “I don’t buy that Fury sent him to Tahiti. I mean, even if Fury decided to give Phil a vacation, do you really think he’d actually go? No. No he would not.”

“It’s probably a mission,” Natasha said. “One Fury doesn’t want us knowing about.”

“Could both of you focus on _your_ mission, please? Go...order drinks. Gamble. Flirt. _Mingle_ ,” Maria ordered.

Clint sighed. “Yeah yeah. I’ll go be Natasha,” he said, wandering into the crowd.

It was a charity ball, casino themed for some God forsaken reason. The house winnings would go to feed hungry children in third world countries. It was a great excuse for rich folk to gamble. Their losses were tax deductible.

The charity wasn't lying exactly, but they weren't telling the whole truth. The children would get food. They would also get guns and “employment” as child soldiers. At least, that was the lucky ones. SHIELD had unconfirmed reports of some children being separated from the others. Taken away for “special training.”

They were on this mission without Phil because Clint and Nat refused to wait for him to get back from “Tahiti.” And Clint was in the monkey suit because the mark, Shulgin Vasilievich, would recognize Nat. Apparently, she’d done work for him during her mercenary period.

Clint walked through the gala, eyeing the gambling tables with confusion and annoyance. These rich folks couldn’t just play Texas Hold ‘Em like normal people. They had to play something fancy with paddles and oversized poker chips.

Also, he didn’t know how to play that. He walked to the bar instead, trying to look “casual” and “not like you want to punch everyone in the face.” Nat’s words. Most importantly, according to her, he had to keep his snide comments to himself.

“Vodka martini,” said someone with a British accent. “Shaken, not stirred.”

And Clint, because he was an idiot, could not stop the snort of disbelief that came from his mouth. “You’re not seriously saying you can taste the difference between a stirred martini and a shaken one, are you?” he asked before he could stop himself, turning to the man in question.

All his brain activity stopped.

The man in question was hot. Like, super hot. He had blonde hair and bright blue eyes and was looking at Clint with this amused _smirk_. A smirk that happened to be one of the sexiest things Clint had ever seen in his whole damn life. And just when Clint thought his higher brain might come back online, the man spoke.

“I can, actually,” the man said. “I’ve done several experiments.”

Clint’s jaw dropped, and his cognitive function derailed again.

“Holy shit,” Nat said in his ear. Nat has seen his soulmark more than once.

Then his brain came back online. “Holy shit,” he echoed. “I can’t believe my soulmark is about fucking vodka martinis.” He'd hoped it would be something more... interesting. Then his brain really started working. Clint remembered this was a party for corrupt assholes funding third-world dictators. Shit.

The man, _his soulmate_ , chuckled. “Bond,” he said, extending his hand. “James Bond.”

“Frank McCarthy,” Clint said, giving the man (his soulmate!) the name of his cover for tonight. Part of him felt guilty, but the other part worried what sort of person his soulmate was. Clint wasn’t exactly an angel. Hadn’t exactly done a lot of good things in his life. It would serve him right to get a power-hungry soulmate who supported evil dictators.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar,” Bond said as Clint shook his hand. (He couldn’t bring himself to think of the man as James, not when Clint was lying to his face.) He was surprised to note that Bond had gun callouses.

“I’m in the ag business. GMOs,” Clint said. Because he was from Iowa, and Hill thought she was hilarious.

“Ah,” Bond said. “How… exciting for you. I’m afraid I’m just a banker.” And Clint’s heart plummeted even more. Either his soulmate was a banker who shot a lot of guns (not a good sign) or he was lying (also not a good sign.)

“It is what it is,” Clint said with a shrug.

“Does Vasilievich do a lot of business with companies specializing in genetically modified organisms?” Bond asked.

“I’ll be honest,” Clint said, and not actually lying this time. “That’s what I’m here to find out. And you? Just here for the good cause?”

Bond smiled and took a sip of his martini before answering. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Clint!” Maria shouted in his ear. It took all his years of training not to wince. “He’s MI6! James Bond, MI6 agent code number zero-zero-seven, license to kill.”

“So… the British Clint?” Natasha asked. He could hear she was amused. “Wait, is he using his real name?”

But Clint had stopped listening. Bond was lying because he worked for MI6! Clint was relieved. He smiled at the other man. “Do you want to go somewhere more private?”

Bond grinned back, unleashing upon Clint another smile that was unfairly hot. And Bond knew it too, the fucker. “At least buy me a drink first.”

Clint was about to respond when two large men in cheap suits walked up to flank Bond on either side. Hired muscle. “Excuse me, we’re having a private conversation, here,” he said.

“Excuse us, Mr. McCarthy,” one of the hired goons said through a thick, Russian accent. “But Mr. Vasilievich has need to speak privately with Mr. Bond. You understand.”

Yeah, Clint understood. He understood too well, even though a glance at Bond showed the man didn’t look frightened. But why would he? Clint thought. Man’s a professional.

Clint was scared though. He wasn’t about to let his soulmate die before Clint ever got around to telling the man his real name. And he sure as all hell wasn’t going to let his soulmate be killed by hired goons with cartoonish Russian accents.

“I’ll be seeing you,” Bond was saying, toasting Clint with a half-full martini glass.

“Yeah,” Clint said, watching Vasilievich’s dickheads lead his soulmate away. “You will.” Then he turned and made for the coat closet.

“Clint,” Maria said. “Remember the mission.”

“I am remembering the mission,” Clint said through clenched teeth. “The mission is to get to Vasilievich. I am getting to Vasilievich.” Once he reached the coat closet, he stripped off his jacket and tie and threw them on the floor.

“Clint, I don’t have visual on you anymore,” Maria said. “Natasha?”

“Negative.”

“I’m going into the ventilation system,” he told them. “Hill, find me a path to Vasilievich and do it fast.”

“Clint.”

“Do it!”

“Fine. But just so you know, that tux you’re wearing is expensive, and you’re going to ruin it,” Maria said.

“I don’t think that’s going to be a deterrent,” Natasha said.

Clint removed his cufflinks and slipped them into his pocket. He grabbed his Glock from where he’d hidden it. It wasn’t as good as his recurve, but the recurve wouldn’t have made it through security. Thus armed, he pulled himself into the air conditioning vent.

“Okay, Hill. Where am I headed?”

“South,” Maria told him. He was grateful she seemed to be on board with his departure from protocol. “Then you’re turning right, immediately left and continuing for ten yards.”

“Yeah,” he said, twisting right then left then crawling forward. Those ten yards ended in a vertical shaft. “Now what?”

“Now you’re going up. Got a grappling hook?”

“No need,” Clint said, wiggling out onto the ledge and pressing his hands and feet into the walls. “These shafts are narrow enough. I can just climb up. How far?” He started his climb, using the pressure he was exerting on the sides of the vent to keep from falling.

“Twelve feet then go right.”

Clint nodded and focused, ignoring the sweat dripping down his face and neck. He got to the top and then turned right. A few more feet and he was staring down into Vasilievich’s private office.

Bond was standing before a messy desk, the two hired goons behind him. Both had weapons pointed at Clint’s soulmate.

Vasilievich was sitting at the desk. Though he was a fit man with greying hair, he still managed to look like he was melting. Like his face was drooping off his skull. It gave him a slimey… frog look. “Nat, you did business with this guy?” he asked under his breath.

“I was young and stupid,” she said.

Vasilievich was speaking. “The last M let us operate in peace, you know. He knew how to do business. But a _woman_ comes in and now I have MI6 in my house.” The man bared his teeth. “I remember thinking, ‘at least it’s more of a challenge,’ but here you are in my office at my mercy. You disappoint me, Mr. Bond.”

“I’m not here to please you.”

“No,” Vasilievich said. “I suppose you’re here about stopping our fun in Kismayo.”

 _Kismayo._ Clint filed that away for later.

Bond said nothing. Vasilievich grinned again. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that. I understand why you find it distasteful, but my boss is quite invested.”

“Overly invested?” Bond asked.

“Perhaps,” Vasilievich said with a shrug as his hand went to a drawer behind the desk. Clint pulled out his gun. “Perhaps not. Only time will tell.” Vasilievich raised his hand, now holding a revolver. “Goodbye Mr. B-”

Clint shot Vasilievich in the head. Then he shifted and shot the Russian’s two goons in the same place.

Bond had pulled out his own gun and was aiming at the vent. Clint was impressed with his soulmate’s reaction time. He was equally impressed with Bond's ability to immediately tell where the shots had come from.

Clint holstered his weapon. He popped the vent out of the ceiling and dropped to the floor, turning in the air so he could land on his feet. Bond had not yet put his weapon away. Clint noticed that he was carrying a Walther PPK. Who the fuck carried a Walther PPK?

“So I take it you’re _not_ in the agriculture business?” Bond asked, raising an eyebrow.

Clint grinned at him. “My real name’s Clint Barton. SHIELD.” 

Bond smiled. “MI6. You do realize you killed my lead.”

“He was going to shoot you. Besides, he gave us Kismayo. That’s more than enough to go on.”

“Us?”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “Me and my team. You can come along if you want, Bond.”

Bond was smiling a lot wider now. It was still incredibly hot. “Oh, I will most definitely be coming. And call me James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yes_ that last is innuendo. In case anyone is curious. If you want to read more about James and Clint (though they're not romantically paired) I highly recommend AlphaFlyers [Second Mouse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1009635/chapters/2003478) and its sequel. 
> 
> I really like doing these crossovers. They're fun.


	10. New Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After waking up, Steve discovers his new soulmark. Unfortunately, his words have already been said.
> 
> I'll be the poet and you the poetry: [New Strings by Miranda Lambert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4cKNxXfWxJ4)

When Steve woke up from… let’s call it a coma... he had a soulmark. He didn’t discover this immediately. He spent his first hours in the 21st century being messed with by Fury. Then he demanded to know a couple of things. Who won the war? What happened to his team? What happened to… just _everything?_ What the heck was going on?

He had questions he couldn’t ask. Why was he still alive? What could he do here, in this new world? How could Captain America be of any use to anyone anymore? How could Steve Rogers be of any use?

And then he discovered his mark.

He’d been a Blank his whole life. It wasn’t exactly common to be Blank, but it wasn’t exactly rare either. It didn’t prevent him from getting work. It wasn’t something the bullies focused on. It wasn’t the reason dames wouldn’t give him a second look. But it was a source of many pitying looks, even after he got the serum.

His new mark was a long thing. It wrapped in a single line all the way around his waist. It took him a while in front of a mirror to read the whole thing.

_I’m sorry you have to be here again after everything I think she would have wanted you to take off just leave fill up your bike with a tank of gas and just go see all the sights you never got to see last time around find what makes you happy_

The interesting thing was the “she” in there. He thought about that a lot. His gut reaction was that they were talking about Peggy. Peggy wasn’t the only “she” in his life that would have wanted him to… “find what makes you happy.” But Peggy was definitely the most prominent one.

He remembered the night after Bucky died when he tried to get drunk and failed. Peggy came and sat with him. She confessed she was Blank too. He’d had a stupid thought. Maybe they could have a future together. Maybe… maybe there would be a future worth having.

It turned out that the future sucked. Not that he had any regrets. Steve was happy there was a future. Happy that Hydra had been stopped. Happy New York still stood and lots of people had gotten to have futures. Happy he’d helped them do that.

But he wasn’t sure what to do with his own future, a gift he didn’t want. He didn’t want to belong here. He wanted to go home. Unfortunately, home was many miles and decades away.

Steve’s new mark could have been a kind of sign that maybe he did belong here. Maybe he could fit in this century. And he kind of resented it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to fit in this century.

When he met his soulmate, he’d ask if they had any advice about finding that happiness. He wasn’t doing a good job finding it on his own.

He thought about taking their advice. Leaving SHIELD and New York and every painful memory and trying to see something new. But he didn’t. Steve told himself he was waiting around for someone to say the words. That wasn’t the whole story. Partially, Fury wanted to keep his survival a secret. Partially, Steve wasn’t feeling too motivated to do much of anything.

After… after the Battle of New York, though, the secret was out. So, screw it, he was off. He filled up his bike with gas and just… drove.

Steve felt better. It wasn’t so much the places he went as it was the act of just… driving. As long as he kept moving, he felt okay. Not great. There was a knot of tension between his shoulder blades that wouldn’t go away no matter how far or how fast he drove. But he felt like a person again.

He’d been gone for about two weeks when Fury got a hold of him. “We could use you in Washington DC,” he’d said.

And Steve… well, he couldn’t refuse. It would be wrong to ignore the gifts the serum gave him. Also, he was pretty sure his soulmate was at SHIELD somewhere.

It felt weird to make decisions based on the words. He’d never had to do that before. He wasn’t sure it was a good thing, tying himself down to this future he might never have. But he did it anyway.

SHIELD was kind enough (or paranoid enough) to find an apartment for him. Nat offered to help him move in, but he just laughed and refused. “All I have fits on the back of my bike.” It wasn’t a two person job.

He hefted his bag up on his shoulder and walked into the building. A pretty blonde girl was unlocking a door, a laundry basket at her feet. He checked the numbers with what SHIELD had told him. Yep… this was his neighbor.

He could feel himself blushing even as he approached her. “Um, hi?” The woman blinked and turned to him. “I’m your new neighbor… just moving in today. But if you need anything I, uh, I’d be glad to help.”

The woman stared for just a bit longer than Steve thought warranted (was no one polite in this century?) before she smiled. “Maybe I should be making _you_ that offer,” she said. “Since you’re new. I’m Kate.” She offered her hand.

“Steve,” Steve said, shaking it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Nice to meet you, Steve,” Kate said, picking up her laundry and slipping into her apartment.

“Nice to meet you too,” he said, watching her close the door. He stood out in the hall for several seconds, unable to move and not sure why.

* * *

Sharon sank to the floor as soon as she heard the door close behind her and curled up with her knees to her chest. Under her shirt, her soulmark wrapped around her ribs.

_Um hi I’m your new neighbor just moving in today but if you need anything I uh I’d be glad to help_

He hadn’t noticed. Of course he hadn’t. He’d been unconscious when she first spoke to him. Sharon rested her forehead on her knees and tried to remember what she’d said.

Two Months Ago

_“Agent 13!” the tech jumped when she closed the door. “What are you doing here?”_

_She smiled at him. “Just indulging my curiosity. Don’t worry, I have clearance.”_

_“Oh, I know, I just… I’m just watching ice melt,” said the tech with a sigh. “I think I’m going nuts and my shift doesn’t end for another two hours. Plus it’s cold in here.”_

_“Why is that?” Sharon asked. “You’d think we’d want him to thaw as fast as possible.” She didn’t want to think of what it was like for Captain Rogers… frozen alive. She hoped that, when they woke him, he wouldn’t have any memories of his time in the ice._

_“Not too fast,” the tech said. “If his limbs thaw before his heart does, they could rot.”_

_Sharon blanched. “Oh God.”_

_“Don’t worry,” the tech said. “We’re keeping that from happening.” He smiled. “We got this, Agent.”_

_She smiled back. “That’s a relief. What’s your name?”_

_“Cameron,” he said with a smile._

_“Sharon,” she said, holding out her hand. Cameron shook it. “You know, if you want, I can keep an eye on him. Give you enough of a break to get your head back on straight, maybe grab a cup of hot coffee?”_

_“Oh my God, you would do that?” Cameron asked, jumping up._

_“Sure,” she said._

_“I promise I won’t be long. If anything happens, you just pick up the phone there and sound the alarm. Not that anything’s going to happen. Nothing happens, but if it does, that’s the phone,” Cameron said._

_Sharon nodded. “That’s the phone.”_

_“Right. I’ll be right back. Thank you so much!” he said, giving her a big grin and dashing off._

_Sharon waved at him as he left before turning back to the frozen hero._

_Cameron had been staring at monitors, hooked up to show a bunch of numbers and lines. They all indicated something, but Sharon had no idea what._

_She stepped around them to look at the captain himself. At the moment he was a somewhat thawed block of ice suspended in an uncovered vat of clear liquid. Probably water, but Sharon didn’t know for sure. She didn’t need to know. There was some sort of breathing apparatus over his mouth, but she could tell he didn’t quite need it yet._

_Her hand rested on the side of the vat, and she sighed. “I’m sorry you have to be here, again,” she said quietly. Too quietly to be picked up by the security cameras in the room. “After everything.” She wondered if Fury had told Aunt Peggy yet of this development. Her great aunt slipped a little sometimes, but she was still sharp on her good days. Sharon decided that Fury must have already informed her. He wouldn’t have allowed Sharon to know before Peggy. Maybe._

_Sharon resolved to tell Peggy everything anyway. Just in case. She wasn’t sure she looked forward to the conversation. “I think she would have wanted you to take off. Just leave. Fill up your bike with a tank of gas and just go. See all the sights you never got to last time around. Find what makes you happy.”_

_Sharon reached into the freezing liquid and grasped his hand. It was still frozen, and she didn’t hold on long. She squeezed his icy fingers and then let go. When Cameron found her five minutes later, she was back by the monitors._

Sharon ran for her phone, the one that looked like a burner from the grocery store. It wasn’t. She dialed a number she’d long since memorized and spoke as soon as it picked up. “Agent 13 code four six triple eight Everest,” she said.

There was a short pause. “What’s wrong?”

“I need you to tell Fury to take me off this mission,” Sharon said.

“Already? He just moved in.”

“Captain Rogers and I are soulmates!”

Another pause. “You’ve blown your cover?”

“No,” Sharon explained. “He didn’t hear me when I spoke to him, but he said my soulwords! You have to get me off this mission.”

“He didn’t hear you? Are you sure? He has super hearing, you know.”

“I _know_ he didn’t hear me.”

“Your cover is fine. You stay.”

“Please,” Sharon insisted. “Tell Fury-”

“What? As long as your cover is still intact, your mission remains a go. That’s protocol.”

“But-”

“Are you asking for special treatment, Agent 13?”

Sharon bit her lip. “No, sir.”

“Good. Then your orders remain. Sitwell out.” The line went dead, and Sharon resisted the urge to fling it against the wall. Steve would definitely hear. Instead, she just took her anger out on herself. Push ups and lunges and pull ups and wishing for a different future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not so many references to the song in this one. Oh well. I really like writing Sharon. She is so much fun, you guys! Also Sharon + Cameron bffs 4 eva!
> 
> Also, I have no idea if the timelines actually match up. I tried to look it up, but there isn't really a date for when Steve moved to DC so this is my best guess? Sorry.
> 
> I think this is my first time writing from Steve's point of view... ever. I'm not sure I like it. The beginning is definitely the messiest part of the story. And I don't think I handled it quite right? Oh well. I really like Sharon's POV. So I'll continue to do that.


End file.
